Remember, God provides the best camouflage several hours out of

Host: The night stretched across the desert like a black ocean, swallowing every shape and sound. The moon was only a sliver, a faint blade of light cutting through the sandstorm haze. Somewhere beyond the dunes, a distant convoy rumbled — its engines muffled by the wind. A few lamps flickered inside a makeshift outpost, their flames shivering in the dry air.

Host: Inside, Jack sat on a rusted metal trunk, his rifle leaning against the wall. His face was half-lit by the fire, half-swallowed by shadow. Jeeny crouched near the radio, adjusting the frequency dial, her hands trembling slightly — whether from cold or memory, no one could tell.

Host: On the tent’s inner canvas, someone had scrawled a quote in black ink, uneven and faded: “Remember, God provides the best camouflage several hours out of every 24.” — David M. Shoup.

Jeeny: “He must’ve meant night, right? The hours when even fear hides its face.”

Jack: “He meant darkness, Jeeny. Darkness is God’s cover, the only mercy left in a world that loves to see you burn.”

Host: The flame crackled, throwing shadows that danced like ghosts across their faces. Outside, the wind moaned softly, brushing the tent with the slow rhythm of something ancient.

Jeeny: “Funny, isn’t it? How we always call on God when the light fades. We curse Him when the sun burns us, then we thank Him for the dark that hides us.”

Jack: “Because the dark doesn’t judge. It doesn’t care who you’ve killed or what you’ve done. It just… covers everything equally.”

Host: Jeeny turned her gaze to him — a long, searching look. The firelight caught her eyes, and for a moment, they looked like two small moons, orbiting sorrow.

Jeeny: “That’s not mercy, Jack. That’s forgetting. Camouflage isn’t forgiveness — it’s pretending not to see.”

Jack: “And what’s the difference? When you’re out there, crawling through mud and dust, you pray for camouflage more than you ever prayed for salvation. One keeps you alive. The other just makes you feel alive.”

Host: His voice was low, almost a growl, carrying the weight of something buried — the kind of heaviness only soldiers know.

Jeeny: “You always talk like the world is a battlefield, Jack.”

Jack: “Because it is. You just have a prettier uniform for it.”

Host: She didn’t flinch. She only reached for her canteen, her hands steady now, her tone calm, but the edge of her words cut through the tent’s still air.

Jeeny: “Even in war, darkness isn’t just a shield. It’s also a mirror. Out there, when you can’t see the enemy, you finally have to face yourself.”

Jack: “You sound like those priests who bless bullets before the fight. Talk about morality, purpose, light in darkness… until the first man dies screaming for his mother. Then you stop talking about God.”

Jeeny: “You stopped talking about God, Jack, not me.”

Host: A gust of wind tore through the tent’s flap, sending sand spiraling through the air. The flame flickered violently, nearly dying. Both of them froze — as if the darkness itself was listening.

Jack: “You think I stopped? No. I just realized He’s the one hiding. Maybe that’s what Shoup meant — that even God needs the night to disappear sometimes.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe He gives us darkness so we can learn to see differently. So that not everything good has to come in light.”

Host: Her words lingered like smoke, twisting through the dim space. The radio crackled briefly, spitting static like a small electric heartbeat, then went silent again.

Jack: “You believe that? That the dark is a gift?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The night hides us from our shame, but it also gives us time — to listen, to heal, to imagine what kind of light we want to walk toward when morning comes.”

Host: For a moment, even Jack’s breathing seemed to pause. The fire hissed softly as another log split in two.

Jack: “You talk about healing, but you weren’t there that night in Fallujah. The dark didn’t hide us. It betrayed us. Every shadow felt like an ambush. Every sound like a countdown. The only camouflage was fear itself.”

Jeeny: “And yet you made it out. Maybe that’s the kind of grace Shoup meant — not that the dark saves us, but that it gives us a chance to survive until something brighter finds us.”

Host: He looked up at her then — his eyes tired, glassy, but still holding a faint, stubborn light.

Jack: “You always make it sound noble. But out here, darkness isn’t sacred. It’s just survival. You do what you have to until the sun rises again and the world remembers to start killing in daylight.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even in daylight, some truths need the dark to grow. Think of it, Jack — seeds, dreams, even wounds — they all heal or take root in the dark first.”

Host: His jaw tightened, but this time not from anger. From thought. From the strange weight of her words pressing into the walls he had built inside.

Jack: “You think the dark is holy.”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s honest. It doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. That’s more than I can say for the light sometimes.”

Host: A quiet laughter escaped him — a hollow sound, but not cruel. He shook his head, staring at the quote scrawled on the canvas again.

Jack: “Maybe Shoup was a philosopher in a Marine’s uniform. Maybe he knew that the dark is the only camouflage God gives us before we go back to fighting in His daylight.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he knew that faith isn’t in the sun or the stars, but in the waiting — in trusting that the night won’t last forever.”

Host: Outside, the wind began to ease. The sand settled, and a faint glow began to bleed along the horizon — the earliest whisper of dawn. Jack leaned back, his shoulders relaxing for the first time in hours.

Jack: “You ever think maybe we’re not supposed to see everything clearly? That the dark — the unknowing — is what keeps us human?”

Jeeny: “All the time. Light blinds more often than it guides. That’s why camouflage exists — to remind us that not all truths are meant to be seen all at once.”

Host: The first thin line of sunlight cut across the sand, piercing the tent’s fabric. The quote above them caught that light — the inked words glowing briefly as if God Himself had signed them.

Jack: “You win, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The night won. It always does — just long enough to give the day another chance.”

Host: The camera would linger there — the two of them seated in half-light, faces caught between shadow and sunrise. Outside, the desert began to shimmer, alive again.

Host: And as the scene faded, the words on the wall seemed to breathe — “God provides the best camouflage several hours out of every 24.”

Host: The darkness, it seemed, wasn’t just hiding them. It was holding them.